


Word and Deed

by dracofiend



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:26:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracofiend/pseuds/dracofiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three ways in which Hathaway’s love may manifest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Word and Deed

**Author's Note:**

> Britpicked by the very kind [](http://witch9spring.livejournal.com/profile)[**witch9spring**](http://witch9spring.livejournal.com/). ♥

**Word.**

It happens in the car, which is fitting, as the car seems to be where the really crucial matters prefer to surface.

"Hathaway," Lewis says, and it's apparent in the way the word spreads his mouth that some serious mental examination is occurring in that Northumbrian brain. Something to do with the statement they just took, Hathaway surmises. He thought it was a bit fishy too.

"There's something I've been meaning to ask."

Ah, a personal point. Hathaway's chin quirks in anticipation. He rather enjoys observing Lewis get fidgety.

"Sir?" Hathaway prompts when Lewis doesn't follow through. He glances over to the passenger side, just for a second, before turning his attention back to the road.

"Is there...anything I ought to know? Only lately I get the feeling that--well, to put it frankly, things are different." Lewis' halting words speed up at the end, finishing almost like an accusation.

The side of Hathaway's lip twitches. "What do you mean?" he asks, perfectly unconcerned. He indicates for the turn ahead.

"Well." Lewis pauses. "You've been...different. Chipper. Positively sprightly."

"Sorry, sir. I’ll grim it up in the future."

"It gets worse when I’m around.”

Hathaway pulls a noncommittal face.

“Would you care to explain, Sergeant?” Lewis says, after a moment.

"Are you asking me to, sir?" He makes the turn into the station's car park.

Lewis sighs. "Will I regret it if I do?"

Hathaway shrugs and meets Lewis' cocked-brow profile. "That's down to you, sir." Lewis is quite comely like this, peering at him with sideways looks through a veritable wall of social unease. Hathaway prays (he literally does, for a split second) he hasn’t done something monumentally stupid and suppresses a wry smile. _For the time is come that judgement must begin._

Lewis takes in a visible breath and looks out the windscreen. "There's one." He points out a parking space, near to the entrance, no blue badge required. Hathaway manoeuvres the car, aiming for it.

"Okay," Lewis says. "I'm asking."

"Asking what?"

"Oh for Christ's sake, not this bloody game again,” Lewis growls. “What's going on, Hathaway? When did you turn into a brainy beam of sunshine, and why? And how come," he adds, clearly directing this last question to himself, "I never noticed until now?"

Lewis’ honest wonderment has Hathaway on the verge of actual laughter. Hathaway holds it in; mustn’t give it away yet. "Maybe you weren't ready," Hathaway suggests, checking the wing mirrors as he pulls in.

"Ready for what?" Lewis says. Hathaway looks over, and Lewis straightens with a nod. "I can play 'Let's Turn Everything Into an Obnoxious Question' too."

"With the best of them," Hathaway agrees. He sets the gear and shuts off the ignition, and smiles across at Lewis. Then he opens the door and gets out.

"Hang on!" Lewis shouts as Hathaway slams his door shut. "You never answered me! And after I asked properly, too." The second door slams, and Lewis' steps echo Hathaway's as they go along the kerb to the concrete stairs. "Ready for what?"

Lewis has caught up; they stride together toward the drab glass doors. Hathaway has his hands tucked in his pockets and splays them out, flaring open his coat.

"For the shocking truth.” He spins on a heel to face Lewis. “I’m head over heels, sir. For you. Hello, Newell."

"Sergeant. Inspector," responds PC Newell, on his way by.

“Oh. Right,” Lewis replies, resuming their progress toward the station and pretending his face is not vaguely shell-shocked. Hathaway’s grin flashes out, beacon-like. (An instant only; they’re approaching the decorum of the station’s glass doors.)

“You taking the piss?” Lewis asks, looking straight ahead. His eyes are light and wide.

“No sir,” Hathaway replies with a swing of his head. They come to the entrance, and Lewis pauses, looking at Hathaway directly.

“Right,” Lewis says again. “Okay. Good.” He stretches a broad hand to his head, pulling fingers over his hair. “Let’s—talk about it later.” Then he proceeds through the doors, leaving Hathaway standing with his head craned back, his hands dug into his pockets, his shoulders pressed up. He tries not to laugh; gives it up as a bad job. He wants to chase after Lewis, knock him down, stop his fall.

“Sergeant! With me, please!” Lewis calls.

Hathaway’s neck snaps up on reflex. “Just coming, sir!” He passes through the sliding doors, stepping smartly to Lewis, unable to quite push back his grin.

 **Deed.**

They are walking along the Holywell Road in suits showing a day’s and night’s wear; closing time has come and gone.

“Sir,” Hathaway asks suddenly, frowning down at the gleam on the cobblestones he trods, “do you believe it’s better to seek forgiveness than to ask permission?”

Lewis shuffles alongside—his face looks haggard in the unkind light. He clicks his tongue against his teeth with a loose afterhours shrug. “Depends on the situation. In our job, often, yeah. Why?”

Hathaway considers the question. _Why, James Hathaway? Why indeed, you utter dolt?_

“No reason,” Hathaway replies, shaking his head. He steps carefully round a little pool entrapped by crumbling cobbles and thrusts his fists more resolutely into his pockets. They proceed wordlessly down the road, leaving the sounds of pub-goers’ traipsing-home laughter in the far behind. They walk and they walk, the brush of chill air bracing on the skin, the uncrisp ring of their steps striking the uneven ground, which smooths to paving after a bit.

Their cars eventually come into view, isolated from one another in the near-deserted car park. Hathaway negotiates another winking puddle, and finds Lewis doing the same. They collide—Hathaway’s arm extends to catch Lewis, independent of thought.

“Sorry—” says Lewis and “Forgive me—” says Hathaway —

and his free hand lifts swiftly to the side of Lewis’ face. He cups his palm to straddle Lewis’ right ear, stretching fingers into Lewis’ hair. It’s cool. His thumb falls lightly upon Lewis’ cheek.

Lewis’ eyes are full wide, in—alarm? Horror? Disgust? James cannot say and goes still, with Lewis’ head in his hand. This is trespass; he has trespassed enough. (But it’s not, not nearly—)

“What are you doing, lad?” Lewis’ voice is rough, Northern, fraying to whisper. The muscles in his temple flex against Hathaway’s fingers when Lewis speaks, as if pressing to break forth, to spill unspoken thoughts. It feels like permission pulsing in Hathaway’s palm.

Slowly, gently, James leans forward, angles his neck down, keeping his eyes fixed on Lewis while Lewis stares back, cast in streaks of orange, crescents of gray, the lines of his life gouged on his face, sharpening and telling a tale Hathaway knows, thinks he knows, wants to live in infinite, intimate terms no matter that it will cost him a sacking, the burning and sacking of the careful world he has built. Lewis doesn’t move as James slowly nears; he doesn’t breathe or back away and every instant is an instant that cannot be undone, another unravelling in the thread of James’ identity, their identity, another transformation of Lewis and Hathaway, borne of all the words, glances, nods and understandings exchanged by the daily iterations of their prior selves.

James keeps his eyes open, and Lewis doesn’t back away. Their noses touch before their mouths do, weightless, faintly warmer than the air. Their lips rest together; James lets his eyes close. Lewis doesn’t back away.

A multitude of heartbeats pass (storming, thundering) through Hathaway. He must raise his head. When he does and sees out again, Lewis is looking at him. His expression is calm, measured, nothing out of the ordinary aside from its very close nearness to Hathaway’s own. It is this last that enables Hathaway to read the amorphous tension in Lewis’ jaw.

Hathaway breathes in deeply through his nose, straightening as he does so, drawing himself fractionally distant from the man he has just kissed. Hathaway swallows, feeling—It is stunning, how sordid it seems now that he’s done it, even in the confines of his own head. Never. Never again. It doesn’t bear thinking of. Never again. His mouth moves, to—apologize? Beg forgiveness. Lewis’ gaze pours on him steadily; a crease is developing above the shadowed curve of his brow.

“Sir,” he begins, but it’s choked, no good. It isn’t any good. Hathaway feels his chin pull in, feels his mouth clench and tighten—he turns his face away sharply, involuntarily.

He should keep walking.

“James.” Lewis’ voice is quiet but the hand that is placed, startlingly solid, to the bare back of his neck is definitive. Commanding. Hathaway’s breath hitches without a sound.

“You’re still my sergeant.”

Hathaway’s head jags over. Lewis is regarding him; he is wearing the stare reserved for eliciting confessions. The hand at his neck clasps more tightly, and James hears it through his skin, in Lewis’ voice. _Please._

James tilts his head back an inch, then another, directing his chin to the sky. It’s suddenly cold on his throat. He answers with heavy-lidded eyes, angled down to where Lewis stands at his side, with a firm and unequivocating palm curled to the twist of James’ neck.

“I am, sir,” he says, in a murmur.

 **Word and Deed.**

“Don’t take this the wrong way, sir,” Hathaway says, apropos of nothing, “but it’s Friday evening. Oughtn’t you be doing something more exciting than going to the pub with your lowly, albeit trusted, sergeant?”

“What could be more exciting?” Lewis returns, jacket sleeves flapping as they walk. “And I could ask you the same thing—no world music concerts on?”

“You flatter me, sir. And alas, no—the Isle of Wight jazz festival is happening this weekend, but I couldn’t get tickets. Happily, I _was_ able to get these.” He reaches into his inner jacket pocket and brings out an envelope, and offers it to Lewis.

“La Perichole,” Lewis reads out, after leaving off the suspicious glancing at Hathaway. “What’s this, then? You’re taking me to the opera?”

Hathaway’s smile is slight and wry. “If only, sir. No, you’re taking Dr. Hobson. Tomorrow.”

“What? Are you playing matchmaker? I thought we’d established you wouldn’t stoop to such a thing.”

“But I haven’t done, sir—you’ve done all the matching,” Hathaway answers, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets and looking over at Lewis. “You and Dr. Hobson, that is. No, I’ve merely sat idly by whilst the two of you have floundered about in the general direction of the other. Well, no more—I cannot in good conscience allow it to continue.”

“All right, all right, if it’s been making you nervy you could have just said.”

Hathaway chooses to remain silent on the point and simply looks away from Lewis, squinting into the distance.

Lewis acknowledges it with a roll of his eyes. “Okay, I get it. But Laura might have plans tomorrow.”

Hathaway shakes his head.

“What, you didn’t invite her already? Now that’s going too far—”

“I took the liberty of checking her diary, sir. In a manner of speaking.”

“Don’t think I want to know what that means,” Lewis grumbles. “Anyway, I haven’t got a tuxedo.”

Hathaway reaches back into his inner pocket. “You can pick it up anytime after 10 tomorrow.” He holds out the receipt bearing the emblem of Walters of Oxford, self-proclaimed menswear and university wear specialists, outfitters to Oxford University.

Lewis doesn’t reach for it immediately. “You’ve hired me a suit.”

“Dinner reservations are under your name; they’ll give you the packet when you check in.” Hathaway’s mouth curves faintly. Sincerely. “Should be a fine evening for a picnic, sir. Jamie Oliver does the catering.”

There’s no response from Lewis, so Hathaway turns his head. Lewis is looking at him with an almost comedic mixture of astonishment, amusement, indignation, and—fondness. Hathaway’s jaw contracts sharply. He quickly faces front.

“Hathaway. This is too much,” Lewis says. “It’s—look, these are bloody orchestra stall seats, and dinner and the suit hire? We’re not exactly talking about pin money—”

“We’re not talking about money at all, sir.” Hathaway interrupts, because the almost gentle, almost apologetic tone is too close to what he’s heard in his head. He squares his shoulders and firmly does not look at Lewis. “I say this in love, and at the risk of blatant insubordination—but to coin a phrase, you need to get your shit together where Dr. Hobson is concerned.”

Lewis is silent, and again Hathaway cannot resist looking, to see Lewis’ thoughts writ plain upon his face. Lewis looks back at him, as if weighing Hathaway’s words. Then he inhales deeply and gives a nod.

“Reckon you’ve got something there.” He pauses. “Thank you. For”—he waggles the tickets and the suit hire receipt—“and for checking Laura’s diary and for scheming up the whole thing. Don’t leave us for a blossoming career in event planning though, eh?”

“Never,” Hathaway replies, the edge of his mouth quirking up. “Happy Christmas.”

“Christmas! It’s the middle of June!”

“Exactly. If you and Dr. Hobson don’t have a happy Christmas together it’ll be no fault of mine.” He can’t help the sideways glance, or the smile when he glimpses Lewis’ eyebrows rising nearly from his face.

“That’s quite enough of that, mister.”

Hathaway huffs a laugh out loud, and Lewis adds, “And anyway, no one’s asked her about the opera. She might turn me down yet and sink _all_ our hopes.”

Hathaway lets his face curl into a lip-biting half-grin and doesn’t say a word. But Lewis looks at him, expecting a quip, so Hathaway breaks from the gaze with a jerk of his head.

“You’ve always got me, sir.”

Beside him, he hears Lewis make an agreeable noise. “What would become of me without James Hathaway, eh?” He rests a hand on James’ shoulder. “Right. You’d better educate me about this La Perichole business. What’s it all about?”

“What every opera, and indeed, life itself, is all about, sir,” Hathaway answers. “The timeless tragedy of love.”

Lewis makes a noise to indicate what he thinks of La Perichole thus far.

“If it’s any consolation,” Hathaway continues, “one of the instrumental figures is the Marquise de Santarem, an unfortunate who’s been imprisoned so long he’s forgotten what he was imprisoned for. The Marquise’s only earthly possession is a small pen knife, which he uses to dig at the wall of his cell. For twelve years he dedicates himself to digging—and at last the rock gives way to light, and air, and the Marquise steps through, with joyous song in his heart. Sadly for him, it is the light and air of a neighbouring cell.”

Lewis snorts. “Poor bloke. What’s he do then?”

Hathaway looks over, and his eyebrows slant up to make an inverse V. “What else? He starts digging.”

Lewis laughs, and James lets himself tilt toward it, a little. “Okay, lad,” Lewis says, clapping James’ shoulder once more. “I like it.”

“I know you will, sir,” James says in reply.


End file.
